•J L E .c 



MISC D V E 






^li 






jfWormng Eeberteg 



with the compliments of 
Waldo Lee McAtee 






Copyright, 1921, by 
Waldo Lee McAtee 



DEC IS 1921 

Published by the Author 

Washington, D. C. 

1921 

©C1A652251 



jUlornmg Jkberieg 

or 

Wfjougfjts Wifnte Hping gfceb 

That olden school of philosophers, the Thalamo- 
sophists,* had no monopoly of knowledge that ac- 
tivity of the mind is enhanced by lying in bed. We 
may be sure that the easy-going Charles Lamb, for 
instance, fully appreciated the comforts of bed and 
the free sway they afford the creative faculties. May 
we not believe that some of his most delightful essays 
sprang into being as he whiled away the morning 
hours, a habit that made him notoriously a late comer 
at the offices of the East India Company. For a 
more recent instance, Mark Twain, we know, did as 
much as possible of his composition in bed. Experi- 
ence had convinced him of the advantage of the 
practice. 

Now all the Mark Twain stories have not been 
told. There will be more of them, to the end of time, 
awaiting inscription on the written page by their fort- 
unate discoverers. Surely there are more of the 
"Essays of Elia" also, to be found by free-roving 

*Which means bed-scholars. Their philosophy was termed 
Thalamosophy or Thalamology. 

[1] 



minds and put in tangible form for the delectation 
of readers. 

The theory of the present writing is that all the 
fancies, ideas, plots — call them what you will — con- 
ceived by the great creative minds, but unused by 
them, are still in existence. Consider the host of 
great writers that have lived and you can imagine 
what myriads of their untold tales there may be. 
Created but unrecorded fancies there are without 
limit. Indeed numerous authors have admitted that 
inspiration usually outruns execution. Sometimes 
the theme has remained intangible even to its origi- 
nator, witness, James Whitcomb Riley's account of 
dreaming a long poem in which a refrain of exquisite 
melody occurred. "Awake," he says, "I could 
not recall a line, and yet I marveled; for some- 
how this mysterious song was, of course, my own 
creation, and my brain all unconsciously had fash- 
ioned it." (Complete Works, Biogr. Ed. II, 1913, 
pp. 479-480.) 

Where, then, are these poems, plays, and stories? 
Where, indeed, but in that shadowy realm of the sub- 
conscious, which is to the conscious, as is the infinity 
of space to our known and measured planetary sys- 
tem. 

But how and when may these conceptions be 
grasped? Never better than during the lingering 
morn, the period when the greatest minds have been 
most active in creative effort. Then in their daily 
cycle of existence, these nebulous ideas are nearest 

[2] 



to reality; then they do not fade into intangibility 
as do most of our day dreams, nor divide into numer- 
ous streams of thought, each losing itself in the bar- 
ren sands of speculation, as do so many of our more 
conscious efforts. No, at that fair time, their natal 
hour, they may be detected, understood, and re- 
membered. 

Real reverie pertains to the morning; day dreams 
are things apart. As the veil of slumber slips 
away, when one is uncertain as yet whether one is 
asleep or awake, when no exertion of any kind is 
required, and the body is so comfortable that one 
is not reminded of its existence, the mind seems de- 
tached and free to follow fancy into any realm of 
thought. Wonderful plans, rapid execution of them, 
and a joyous feeling of originality intoxicate one. 

But despite these sensations, it must be admitted 
that consciousness is not the clearest and the mind 
is somewhat bemused. After complete awakening, 
therefore, in my own case, I usually find it necessary 
to conclude that the ideas, which seemed so delight- 
fully original, are not so in reality. The tale or verse 
that has shaped itself in my mind seems not my own. 
The impression prevails that it has been borrowed, 
now from this, again from that author. 

So I set to work searching for it. I consult my 
favorite editions and can not find it; but, I reflect, 
perhaps the collection is not complete. There was 
one little tale, for instance, which seemed must be 
one of Guy de Maupassant. However, search failed 

[3] 



to reveal anything just like it; then there came to me 
the theory here outlined. The story I had dreamed 
must be one de Maupassant had planned but had 
never written — a floating fragment — which my sub- 
conscious mind has seized upon and had been able 
to transfer to my conscious memory, so that I was 
able to reproduce it. Whether or not you agree with 
my theory, here is the story : 

A GOOD GIRL 

She had worked in my office for years. She was a 
good, sensible girl and faithful in her work. To show 
my appreciation, I was as kind to her as whole- 
hearted interest and thoughtfulness could make me. 
My wife frequently sent her little gifts, and I added 
others on my own part. She was sincerely grateful. 

Every morning when I reached the office she was 
there ahead. Our daily greeting was cordiality it- 
self. We had known each other so long and so well 
that it would have been surprising if a note of affec- 
tion had not crept into our intercourse. 

One day I brought a gift which particularly ap- 
pealed to her. Her thanks were profuse. In giving 
it to her our hands touched and seemed magnetically 
to cling together. Her eyes grew wider and duskier, 
and a slight flush tinged her cheeks. I was not un- 
affected by her display of emotion and admiration 
and affection must have shown in my glance. She 
leaned toward me, I felt her trembling with excite- 

[4] 



ment; her lips were temptingly near. One moment 
more and anything might have ensued. 

At that instant when hearts were melted and ready 
to pour into one another through the medium of pas- 
sionate kisses, with the promise of all the soul could 
wish in those glowing eyes before me, I deliberately 
closed mine. The circuit was broken, our hands 
parted, and with a little shiver, an "Ooh" of relief 
and an "Oh" of disappointment, she said, "That was 
a narrow escape, was it not?" 

Long since, apparently, the incident has been for- 
gotten. She still works for me and we are the best 
of friends, which proves the superfluity of my first 
remark that she is a very sensible girl. 



From de Maupassant to our beloved American 
poet, James Whitcomb Riley, seems a far stride, yet 
to the wholly detached mind, nothing is impossible. 
So there came to my bed one morning a poem, which 
seems very like those of the Hoosier bard, yet not a 
duplicate of any of them so far as I can learn. If any 
reader should find it so, I shall be pleased to receive 
the information; such a coincidence would constitute 
a most remarkable case of the phenomenon of 
thought transference. 



151 



OLE BOSS NICKLES' BLACKSMITH SHOP 

What fun we had 'ith ole Boss Nickles! 
The thot of it my memory tickles. 
Most any game, the boys 'ud stop, 
To visit his ole blacksmith shop. 

Ho! whang! how the iron did clang! 
And sparks flew by us as it rang. 
He'd bend it any way with ease, 
An' pound out horse-shoes, if you please. 

When the iron had cooled to ruby red 
He'd plunge it in a tub, he sed, 
To temper it. My how it hissed! 
An' water steamed off in a mist. 

An' weldin' things, an' settin' tires, 
Gee! 'twas fun! He'd leave his fires 
Sometimes, and whittle with his knife 
Minnies from hoof scraps, true as life. 

Hold one on your palm, 'twould wiggle, 
An' was so funny we had to giggle. 
My! Boss Nickles was a nice ole man, 
I'll be as like him as I can. 



Sho! that's long ago, yet is so real, 
How olden scenes upon me steal: 
The pungent smell of searing hoof, 
The sparks upleaping to the roof, 
The corners dark, the creaking bellows, 
The puffing fire of reds and yellows, 
All rise at times to memory's top 
And again I'm in Boss Nickles' shop. 

[6] 



The next windfall from the realm of the subcon- 
scious, which I would bring to the attention of the 
reader, is a poem which was classified as to similitude 
by a friend who read it. "What is this, something 
from Tennyson?" he enquired. On that hypothesis 
I have investigated the case but have found nothing 
definite. But Tennyson, who wrote so much, must 
also have created a great deal that he did not write 
— a rich heritage for the explorer of the subconscious 
world. The theme of these verses seems to be that 
great contentment is still possible for the nature- 
lover, even though he be confined to the city. Tenny- 
son lived for some time in London, and it is certain 
that any reminders of his real love, the country, 
would have made a great appeal to him. 



[71 



FROM A CITY WINDOW 

To sleep-calmed eyes aware of earliest light, 
How welcome ever that familiar sight: 
My tree, the red-brown roofs upon the mills, 
The low-hung curtain of the distant hills. 

The crows, jet-black against the paling sky, 
Like rowers strong and fleet go sweeping by. 
The pigeons, swiftly wheeling, oft appear, 
And sparrows softly chatter notes of cheer. 

With joy, therefore, my heart at each dawn teems, 
How sweet the world, secure my eyrie seems. 
At last I hear, still rapt in mornings' glow, 
The rumbling of the hast'ning world below. 



When one has a really long morning of sweet 
doing nothing, a more extended tale may present 
itself. One not only longer, but different in charac- 
ter from those previously quoted is herewith appen- 
ded. It is a fairy tale from I know not what source. 
Most of our fairy stories, in fact, have been so long 
anonymous that they are classed as folk lore. Like 
the other fruits of reverie in this offering, it is cast in 
the first person, for to my mind only that form of 
composition is adapted to carry a conviction of 
versimilitude. To grant the initial premise neces- 
sary in the case of so many literary efforts, that the 
teller has intimate knowledge of the character and 
doings of a number of other persons, for me, is 
difficult. Let, therefore, one fortunate enough 
to have seen the fairies tell in his own words, 



WHERE JACK FROST GETS HIS FLOWERS 

When I was a little boy, my parents, my grand- 
parents, all of our family, in fact, lived together near 
a beautiful lake. The village was on level ground 
between the lake and some high rocky hills. I was 
told, and it was hard for me to understand then, 
that ages ago the lake had been where our houses 
stood and that the high hills were its olden shore. 
They told me also that as the lake lowered, the 
streams coming in, slowly cut down through the high 
land and made the deep valleys which we so loved to 
explore. What a long, long time that must have taken ! 

[9] 



In one of the gorges was a high water fall, which 
kept us from going up that valley. Naturally, we 
wondered only the more about what was up above, 
so one day my grandfather and I explored it as far 
as we could, picking our way along the top of one 
bluffy bank. Grandpa went ahead and it was some- 
times hard for a little boy such as I then was to follow 
him. There were so many stiff bushes with crooked 
branches locked together as if they were knees and 
elbows. It was a rough and wild and lonesome place; 
I was sure no one had ever been there before. 

We looked over the edge of the gorge now and then. 
It was deep and dark and cold looking but we could 
hear the stream faintly gurgling far down at the 
bottom. 

A little after noon, by the sun, we made a turn 
around a great green hill and came upon a wider part 
of the valley. But the sides were solid rock and so 
very steep that we could not go down. We were 
a little tired and sat near the edge to rest. 

We had not been sitting long when we noticed 
some strange objects below us in the shade of the 
sheer walls of the ravine. They reminded me of the 
white ant or termite hills of the tropics pictured in 
my school books. They were like tall haycocks but 
were glistening white. Here then was something 
new; we were glad we had explored. We wondered 
what they were, and as we could not get closer to 
them, I threw a stone at one to see what would hap- 
pen. The effect was surprising; the stone went 

[10] 



clear through, leaving a hole ever so much bigger 
than itself. This I though great fun, so I kept on 
throwing stones just to see the hillocks crumple, 
which they did almost as if they were masses of 
bubbles. Grandpa even tried a few throws and his 
larger stones made great havoc. 

It was soon time for us to turn about for home and 
we left the snowy haycocks without learning what 
they were. As we retraced our steps along the 
brink, we came upon a little path which we had 
passed unnoticed on our way up. This promised 
easier walking so we followed it. 

We went faster now and soon came to the foot of 
the great green hill. Here on more level ground, the 
trail turned sharply away from the gorge and we 
found ourselves looking in surprise at a little house. 
It was perfect, but small; you and I could not enter 
the doors. I knew it belonged to the fairies. 

Grandpa stooped and knocked at the front door. 
It was opened by a neat little lady to whom Grand- 
pa doffed his hat and said, "How do you do?" She 
did not return his greeting but closed the door with 
a bang. We were at a loss to understand this seem- 
ing impoliteness, so Grandpa knocked again. "I'll 
ask her for a drink," he said; "she can't refuse that 
and then maybe we'll get acquainted." But the 
little lady must have felt cross for she opened the 
door only a wee bit and snapped at us, "To those who 
are rude, rudeness will be shown. Good day." 

We were astonished but more anxious than ever 

fill 



to learn something about this small person. So 
Grandpa knocked once more and without waiting 
for the door to open said, "We are very thirsty, 
please won't you give us a drink?" Soon the door 
opened and two small cups of water were given us. 
"Thank you so much," Grandpa said, "and may I 
inquire how we have been rude to you ? We are not 
aware of having done anything wrong; certainly we 
have not meant to." "But you threw at the 
stacks, " the little lady replied, tearfully; "you almost 
wrecked them." We were sorry that she felt so 
badly and Grandpa apologized earnestly. "We 
did not know they belonged to any one, we didn't 
even know what they were," he said; "but this is a 
good lesson not to do anything unless one is sure no 
harm will result. It was thoughtless, foolish, we are 
very sorry really. Can't we do something to mend 
the damage?" The fairy lady relented. "I believe 
you are sorry and would not have done it had you 
known, so if you will come with me I'll show you 
what the stacks are for, then you'll know better next 
time." She came out of the house and walked 
around the corner, we following; we soon reached the 
mouth of a cave. Luckily this was not made by 
the little people but was a natural cave big enough 
for even Grandpa to walk in comfortably. 

Have you ever been in a cave? One with shining 
white columns and domes? With great objects like 
icicles hanging from the ceiling in places, and others, 
standing up from the floor? This was such a cave 

[121 



but the fantastic forms were not ice as they appeared, 
but were pure crystal limestone. I was busy looking 
at these when we came unexpectedly to a wider part 
of the cave which stretched out farther than we could 
see. This, as well as the passage through which we 
had come, was well lighted; how, we could not tell. 
All about in this vast room were low but large square 
tables and the lady taking us to one of them showed 
us carved in its surface moulds like the fronds of 
ferns. We went to another and another; one had 
something like evergreen branches, another grass 
blades, and so on; there was a multitude of delicate 
starry or feathery moulds, all very beautiful. 

We were delighted and amazed. "And what 
please are all these?" asked Grandpa, indicating the 
moulds. "Here," returned our fairy guide, "is where 
we make the frost flowers. The stacks are our store 
of raw material and whenever Jack Frost needs a new 
set of flowers, all the fairy tribe gather here, take the 
frost and make them for him, fresh and crisp." 

Was it not wonderful ? We thought so and so told 
our hostess. Thanking her sincerely, we again 
begged her pardon for injuring the stacks. She had 
quite forgiven us now and said, "Don't think any 
more about that, they can be repaired. The frost 
we gather where the spray of a waterfall freezes in the 
cold air of the gorge. It is stacked till we need it. 
When the weather grows bitter cold and people 
throughout the land go out of doors but little, Jack 
Frost comes here and gets the flowers and ferns to 

[13] 



ornament the windows. They must be ready, for 
Jack is impatient; he wants to do something quickly 
to make more pleasant your stay indoors when the 
cold days come." 



Be they prose or poetry, the snatching of these 
fragments out of the ether, as it were, is a most 
interesting process. It would seem that these literary 
conceptions go drifting about until they come into 
contact with a mind that is sensitized to receive 
them, the case being much the same as with certain 
vibrations of sound which are audible only to the 
ear attuned to their frequency. 

Now lying in bed is peculiarly adapted to quicken- 
ing certain faculties and to opening the mind to 
inspiration; so found the ancient Thalamosophists, 
who were mentioned at the beginning, so have found 
many others. It is not surprising, therefore, that 
while in the exalted state accompanying morning 
reverie, the intellect is enabled to grasp some of the 
unspoken creations of genius, which willy-nilly have 
become part and parcel of the subconscious world. 

However gleaned from the great reservoir in which 
they exist, the ideas that come during lazy mornings 
are most enjoyable to receive and to record. Such 
experiences are the greatest pleasures of lying abed. 
But how the stern necessity of catching that 8:05 
car for the office, curtails one's dreams, and robs the 
world of who can tell what gems of Thalamology. 

[14] 



NOTES ON CONTENTS 

It is inartistic, beyond a doubt, to destroy illusion in a post- 
script. But the writer is one who puts frankness above artistry, 
hence is free to proceed with the dissection. He is the more 
inclined to the course because previous experience has shown that 
the Notes on Contents vie in interest to his friends with the 
contents themselves. 

The variety in mise-en-scene for collections of stories is small. 
The telling of tales to divert a monarch is part and parcel of The 
Thousand and One Nights, tho imitated elsewhere. Boccaccio's 
device of throwing together a number of people under conditions 
stimulating them to entertain each other with story-telling, 
altho as old, again, as the Nights, is thought of in connection with 
his work before any other and has received the sincerest form of 
flattery from many pens. Inspiration of the prophets, which 
might have been used as a welding for much of the material in 
the Bible, was not worked up as a stage-setting, while a modern 
invention, the finding of forgotten manuscripts, is both weak and 
overworked. 

An entirely distinct mise-en-scene, upon which as a thread can 
be strung any and all pearls of literature, without doubt, therefore, 
is one of a class of literary devices, the really distinct types of 
which can be numbered on the fingers. 

That here presented so far as known has not previously been 
used. Certainly it is comprehensive enough to include the most 
diverse literary efforts, and it could be worked out in an endless 
variety of detail. Such manipulation has here been restricted, 
however, because the writer is content with the invention, leaving 
others to elaborate it if they choose. Not the mise-en-scene but 
the story is the thing, proof of which is the fact that tales and 
verses in most classic collections have had no special setting. 



[15] 



Drawing inspiration for literary efforts from the domain of the 
subconscious occurred to the writer as a mise-en-scene while 
traveling from Indianapolis, Indiana, to Urbana, Illinois, February 
16, 1917. Such extension of the theme as here given was written 
at Madison, Wisconsin, February 25, and at Lansing, Michigan, 
March 4. The prose and verse compositions included have the 
following chronology: 

A Good Girl. 

Conceived Ithaca, New York, February 19, 1914; written 
Albany, February 22. Entirely imaginary. 
Ole Boss Nickles' Blacksmith Shop. 

Maywood, Virginia, 1918. Boss Nickles was the name of 
the kindly old blacksmith whose shop was across the road 
from the house occupied last by our family in the village 
of Jalapa, Grant County, Indiana, whence we moved to 
the city (Marion) when I was five years old. 
From a City Window. 

Written Washington, D. C, April 27, 1915; conceived there 
about a month earlier. The trees and the birds were seen, 
the mills and hills dreamed, from a window in an apart- 
ment we occupied at 3306 Fourteenth Street, Northwest, 
Washington, D. C. 
Where Jack Frost Gets His Flowers. 

Conceived Washington, D. C, autumn 1913; written Ithaca, 
New York, February, and Boston, Massachusetts, March, 
1914. Imaginary, of course, but my maternal grandfather, 
Miles Morris, a much appreciated chum of my boyhood, 
was in my mind when I wrote this tale. 



16] 



Qtynmglj ttj? f ttxtz 



with the compliments of 
Waldo Lee McAtee 










Copyright, 1931, by 
Waldo Lee McAtee 



Published by the Author 

Washington, D. C. 

1931 



©CI 



A 45407 



FOREWORD 

In the years 1920, 1921, and 1922, the 
author distributed chiefly as holiday remem- 
brances booklets of original writings. The 
series was interrupted for various reasons of 
which only one need be mentioned, that being 
the purchase and upkeep of a succession of 
automobiles. There was no lack of material 
either of verse or prose for additional broch- 
ures, and the present will inform readers that 
the literary flame has never entirely subsided. 
Writing just for the fun of it is one of the 
author's greatest pleasures, and he hopes that 
it will so continue "while the sands of life 
shall run." 



1910 

ALVERETTA 

So trim and so neat, 
So round yet petite, 

Is Alveretta; 
So pretty and sweet 
One almost could eat 

Dear Alveretta. 



[l] 



1912 

VERSES IN THE ARABIAN MANNER 

1. 

Her eyes are glowing, slumbering fires, 
'Neath wealth of hair like murky night, 
Her mouth a ruby set with pearls, 
She wins all love by beauty's might. 

2. 

Slender, but not too slim, 
Grace of royal palm outvying, 
Rounded, but not too round, 
Rondure, beauty's crown supplying. 

3. 

With graceful, swaying, swimming gait, 
Carriage of doe she put to shame, 
Sturdy is she, but true femme withal, 
A dearling the gods would gladly claim. 



[2] 



1913 

EXERCISE IN TROCHAIC DIMETER 

Pretty Esther, 
Charming creature, 
How I love her 
Ev'ry feature. 

Bright and gladsome 
As the morning, 
Sweet and winsome, 
Earth adorning. 

She a treasure 
Past the telling, 
Bringing pleasure, 
Care dispelling. 

Roses flow'ring 
In her cheeks, 
Music showering 
When she speaks. 

Eyes a-dancing, 
Full of fun, 
Mien entrancing 
Everyone. 



[3] 



1917 

IN, NOT OF, THE WORLD 

"In, not of, the world," the shallow say 

Of him absorbed in learning Nature's lore. 

Their world the common flight from voids 
that bore, 

His, life, the earth, and stars in their array. 

They have their teas, their plays, and mas- 
querades, 

Forgetting is their passion, their delight. 

He ponders life, he faces death. The glooms 

Of Nature like fair day meet but his steady 
sight. 

The storm, have they it braved, or climbed 
the peak, 

Explored the cave, or traced the rapid river, 

Or seen, ten times, the dawn from clouds 
unfurled? 

Themselves indict who without thought thus 
speak, 

Who see not, hear not, never burn nor shiver, 

Who to the end are "in, not of, the world." 



[4] 



1920 
THE OLD DOORS OF GEORGETOWN 

Within a graceful portico, or up a half-turned 

stair, 
In dignity, the old doors of Georgetown wait 

you there, 
Hear an arch by genius shaped, there fretting 

deftly planned, 
Here glist'ning panes or panels neat, and 

there a knocker grand. 

Oh! the old doors of Georgetown, 
What a tale that they could tell 
Of new, of old, of other days, 
They must remember well, 
Of colonies, of trading ships, 
How war and peace befell, 
But best of all of happiness 
Where fond hearts calmly dwell. 

Wrought with finer fancy these fair doors of 

other days 
When folk took time to think, to live, in 

deeper, better ways. 
Each door beams hospitality, nor does a note 

omit, 
Each is the welcome to a home, by skill and 

art made fit. 

Oh! the old doors of Georgetown, 
What a tale that they could tell 
Of new, of old, of other days, 
They must remember well, 
Of colonies, of trading ships, 
How war and peace befell, 
But best of all of happiness 
Where fond hearts calmly dwell. 

[5] 



1922 

AS LOVE SHOULD BE 

Have we each other but an hour, 

Let us so love 
That the hour will seem a life, 
In love's glorious appraisement. 

And hour on hour piece out a life, 

Let us so love 
That the life will seem an hour 
In love's glorious summation. 



[6] 



1923 

TO LILA LEE 

Mistress of our hearts, your art would seem, 
Mood to mood flowing, plastic as a stream. 
Emotion's every note at your command 
You sound them truly all, from faint to grand. 
Dear loyalty, sweet tenderness, or deepest 

love, you sing, 
Lute of the soul art thou, and perfect every 

string ! 



[71 



1927 

THE FIRST DAY OF SPRING 
IN THE NORTH 

The weary tale of winter days at last is done 
And warmer grows the scarce-descending sun. 
In lakes the ice, on hills the snow, gives way, 
And like a fairy comes the first spring day. 

Gold are the furry catkins 

that gaily clothe the willows, 
Gold are the butterflies that rest 

upon these downy pillows, 
Gold are the flowers reflecting 

the sun's now ardent face, 
All to gold, the winter's silver, 

has clearly yielded place. 

In grassy bowls among the hills 

the eager lovers meet 
And tell anew the tale tho old 

that is of all most sweet. 
"Hail sun, and flowers," their spirits cry, 

"hail every new born thing," 
"We live, we love," their souls sing out, 

"for once again 'tis spring!" 



[8] 



1929 
PEACE 

[Read lazily, giving the intervals almost as much time 
as the words.] 

Ah laks to pass de day jes' a pattin', 

Pattin' mah han' 

In de san', 

Jes' so. 

Foh dey's no one den a bossin' me, 

Drivin' me roun', 

Lak a houn, 

No mo. 

Den agin mah haid's a restin' easy, 

Wink and blink 

Neva think, 

What fo? 

Sho trouble neva comes when Ah's a pattin', 

Pattin' mah han' 

In de san, 

Lawd, No! 



[9] 



1930 
A WOMAN'S LOVE 

[To part of the air of "The Beautiful Blue Danube".] 

Oh ! for a woman's love, 

What would I not do? 

Oh! for a woman's love, 

A love both fond and true. 

I'd answer any call, 

I'd give my very all, 

My life, my soul, for love, 

For a woman's love, a woman's love. 

Oh ! for your true love, 

My heart's aflame. 

Oh ! for your true love, 

Have I any claim? 

Please show it if its there, 

Please tell me if you care, 

In ecstacy I'll be, 

If you'll give your love to me, to me. 

You are my only love, 

That dear you know. 

You are my only love 

I love you so. 

I love you all the day, 

I love you every way, 

I want you for my own, 

Want you for mine, and mine alone. 



[10] 



NOTES ON CONTENTS 

PAGE 
S.LVERETTA 1 

Impromptu on the back of a calling card sent 
with a gift. New Orleans, La., February 1910. 
Set down from recollection, this trifle is about 
as early a scribbling in verse as I have pre- 
served; I have various prose efforts, however, 
of much earlier dates. 



/erses in the Arabian Manner 2 

Washington, D. C, March 12, 1912.. Inspired 
by the inevitable fair, and written under the 
spell induced by copious reading of Sir Richard 
Burton's translation of "A Thousand Nights 
and a Night". 

Exercise in Trochaic Dimeter 3 

Maywood, Va., July 1913. Having in mind Con- 
stantine Huyghen's versified letter to Tessel- 
schaede. 

n, Not of, the World 4 

At the Office, Washington, D. C, July 1, 1917. 

"he Old Doors of Georgetown 5 

Maywood, Va., December 1920, January 1921. 
Seeing some of these beautiful old doors made 
me want to write something about them. They 
seem to be of that type of architecture which 
in New England is attributed to exceptional 
• craftsmen from among the ships carpenters. 



[11] 



NOTES ON CONTENTS— (Continued) 

PAGE 

As Love Should Be 6 

Conceived Bar Harbor, Me., August 1, 1922; 
written then and in New York City, August 
13, 1922. 

To Lila Lee 7 

Composed on the way home after seeing one of 
her picture plays. Washington, D. C, January 
1923. Written and revised Maywood, Va., 
January-February 1923. 

The First Day of Spring in the North ... 8 

Written on a train Helsingfors to Abo, Finland, 
May 4; revised Stockholm, Sweden, May 5, 
1927. The bursting gladness of everything at 
the real advent of spring in this northern clime 
infected me with this result. 

Peace 9 

Columbia Pike, beyond Holmes' Run Reservoir, 
Va., September 12, 1929. After seeing two 
negro girls lazily reclined by the roadside, I 
stopped the automobile at the next shade and 
wrote this. 

A Woman's Love 10 

Potomac Park, D. C, June 3, 1930, before going 
to the office. It has always seemed to me that 
"The Beautiful Blue Danube" in various parts 
says "a woman's love" and "Oh for a woman's 
love" over and over again. Half-formed con- 
ceptions of many years are here embodied. 



[12] 



A Stem ®al?0 



with the compliments of 
Waldo Lee McAtee 






Copyright, 1934, by 
Waldo Lee McAtee 



IsS-L.TAcOliJi 



Published by the Author 

Washington, D. C. 

1934 



C:iA A 162085 

DEC 11 I93J* 



A GOOD LISTENER 

He had a red-veined, swollen nose flanked 
by gooseberry eyes, and stubbly cheeks. Al- 
together unprepossessing, how could anyone 
ever feel disposed to smile upon him. Yet 
by his side, busily talking, was a smiling 
young woman, trim and lively, with a pair 
of witching eyes. One could not cross their 
vivacious glances without responding; they 
were most expressive. 

As the train sped along, she talked to him 
almost incessantly. She smiled, sometimes 
laughed, but he was stolid. Rarely did he 
yield even a monosyllable. Usually his eyes 
were closed; at times he appeared to sleep. 
How her attentions were wasted upon so 
lethargic a brute! 

Once only he aroused, drew a flask from 
his pocket, and drank. He then tried to 
press some of the liquor upon her. The eyes 
snapped as she refused. Much earnest lec- 
turing followed, but he was unmoved. As he 
fell into a doze, she dabbed at her eyes. 

What leads a woman to consort with such 
a beast? Can it be the wonderful opportu- 
nity for monologues? 



[1] 



COMFORT BEFORE PIETY 

It was an intensely hot day. Even when 
sitting quietly in the little negro church I 
was visiting, I was covered with perspiration 
and could feel it gather in little streams 
and trickle down. The preacher seemed less 
affected by the oppressive humidity and heat 
than anyone else in the building. He had 
already delivered a fairly long sermon, with 
the alternating intonations (some of them 
almost detonations), so characteristic of his 
calling and his color. 

When it seemed he might well conclude, 
especially in view of the uncomfortable con- 
ditions prevailing, he apparently found fresh 
inspiration and launched forth on a new 
theme. This was too much for a large, not 
to say voluminous, colored lady who rose 
near the front of the audience and ponder- 
ously began to amble down the aisle. 

The preacher was startled. "Samantha 
Gale," he fairly shouted, "what do you mean, 
startin' a stampede like dis?" Now there 
had been no stampede unless Samantha's 
going could be so considered, she being rather 
a crowd in herself, but the minister voiced 
what he feared rather than what he saw. 
"Considah mah feelin's, Mrs. Gale," he con- 
tinued; "does yo want to insult yo pastor?" 

"No indeedy," returned the bulky Saman- 
tha, "ah aint insultin' nobody, but ah's think- 
ing ob mah feelins too. Dis tumble hot day," 
puffed she, mopping her face, "dese yere 
numbah lebens, dey's jes killin me." At this 
remark there broke forth profound sighs, if 
not groans, especially from the masculine 

[3] 



members of the congregation. Samantha may 
not have been an orator, but she certainly 
reached the hearts of her people. "Dis 
aggravatin' corset," she jerked out, as she 
grasped the offending article and shook it, 
"ah wish ah cud tear it off." This also 
brought a very audible response from the 
suffering ladies present. Samantha's per- 
oration now came ; in fairly desperate tones, 
she exclaimed : "Ah jes 'gotter get outer heah 
and loosen up." 

The preacher, not lacking discernment, at 
once adopted a conciliatory attitude. "Now 
set down jes a minute, Samantha," he whee- 
dled, "ah knows its hot, an ahm a fool 
preacher not to see dat dats not de ony 
trouble. But de good Lawd knows ahs get- 
tin mighty tahd of dis sermon mahself. Now 
brudders and sisters let us all go foth to- 
gedder." 



[41 



ONE OF OUR MOST TERRIBLE QUARRELS 

It was one of those lazy mornings when 
neither of us could summon enough resolu- 
tion to get up. My brain cerebrates espe- 
cially well on such occasions or so at least is 
my impression. This morning a wonderful 
thought came to me and I was unwary enough 
to give it utterance. "Gee, isn't it lucky," I 
suggested, "that one's head has a skull inside 
of it?" Coming like a bolt from the blue, it 
is little wonder this venture provoked her 
favorite reproof, "Why, Edward, how ab- 
surd !" However, as the wife is one of those 
born good lookers to whom anything resem- 
bling mental activity is absurd, I allowed my 
train of thought to rumble on. "Absurd? of 
course not. Think how careful we would 
have to be when scratching our heads, so 
soft and jelly-like they would be. No doubt 
some animals would have formed the habit 
of snapping heads off, just like we do a 
raisin popping out of a piece of pie, and 
instead of lions and bears we would call 
them head-snatch ers." 

"How perfectly absurd, Edward ! Besides, 
you know I just can't stand such remarks." 

"Of course," said I, ignoring the interrup- 
tion, "there would have to be some protec- 
tion. The poorer classes probably would 
wear sections of stove pipe over their heads, 
with holes cut for seeing, but I think I could 
afford a helmet for you like those of the 
knights of old with a long flowing plume at 
the top. Wouldn't that be nifty?" 

"Edward, you mean thing, I believe you 
want to cover my face up so you won't have 

[5] 



to look at it." This was a telling retort, for 
I'll say it would be a loss to the world to 
have that face covered up, so I hastily dis- 
claimed any such desire. "No, no, honey, 
you misunderstand me; this is only an idea. 
We'd surely make an exception of you." But 
still being obsessed with my speculation, I 
went on, "Of course in certain highly abnor- 
mal cases protection would be unnecessary — 
say when the head was all or nearly all bone." 

"Edward !" she shrieked, "now you're in- 
sulting me;" and struggling to get up, she 
vowed, "I'm going right home to mamma." 

"No, no, honey," said I, holding on for 
dear life, "this didn't mean you; not at all. 
Your head isn't all bone by any means; its 
got a great big cavity in it." "Let me go! 
let go," she cried; "I won't stand any more 
of your insults. This means divorce." "Aw 
sweetie, be reasonable," I plead. "I meant 
to say your head has just the right amount 
of bones and holes" (she was straining to 
get away then) ; "no, I mean brains in it" 
(at that she relaxed a little). "And the 
dearest little nose," added I, realizing my 
mental wanderings must stop, and taking a 
chance by loosening one hand to caress that 
organ, I raved on, "and cheeks smoother and 
prettier than any peach, and lips like two rose 
petals," added I, with the appropriate caress, 
"just the sweetest and dearest in the world." 

Now in a tone both soothed and gratified 
she replied, "Oh Edward, this is really you," 
and with a kiss, "dear boy." 

It wasn't really me at all, but I had to let 
it go at that. 



[6] 



A SUPERFLUOUS GOVERNMENT OFFICIAL 

A constantly repeated phenomenon requires 
explanation. If there is an accepted one, 
mental laziness of the average human coun- 
sels acquiescence. In the absence of such a 
pronunciamento even a lazy mind, when suf- 
ficiently stimulated, will wonder, why? and 
wherefore? When, therefore, through the 
course of the years practically every postal 
card received was found to be speckled, 
stained, and nail-marked, august reason 
straightened on her throne and demanded, 
"Why is this thus?" 

An early theory about the matter was that 
these cards must be used as a litter in sweep- 
ing the floor, for they have about the right 
combination of dust, smears, blotches, and 
blurs to result from such usage. The evi- 
dences of sprinkling are very patent as the 
inked letters have spread in spots just as 
they would if water were violently slatted on 
them, allowed to spread wheresoever it listed, 
and then to dry. The effect on the writing 
is remarkable, and one gets words like Ian, 
seor, weor, etc., inspiring a craving for ability 
to read Gaelic. At any rate, if the altered 
chirography is not Gaelic it is not anything 
else that the average person can read. 

One feature common to most of these mal- 
treated postcards is more or less extensive 
markings by shoe-nails, of a size somewhat 
below hob-nails. Usually these constitute a 
thorough grilling of nail prints through the 
smudges, breaking the surface of the card 
much after the manner of machines that are 
used to prevent alteration of checks. It was 

[7] 



this punching that spoiled our floor-sweeping 
theory, for manifestly it would be too much 
work to spread the cards out over the floor 
before walking on them. It would be so 
much easier to put them in a box and tram- 
ple them that this method would inevitably 
be adopted. If done by a thorough and effi- 
cient employe, who is also an accomplished 
tobacco "chawer" and spitter, the process 
would give just about the effect we ordinarily 
note on our postal cards. We do not know 
the real title of this employe, but in our rev- 
eries have dubbed him Official Postal Card 
Tr ampler. 



[81 



AS DIFFERENT AS BLACK AND WHITE 

Is it any wonder that these symbols for 
opposites sometimes lead us to assume great 
distinctness where perhaps little or none 
exists? Well, to confess, I, for one, have 
been so misled. 

Black people, white people, so unlike in 
color; should they not be different in habits, 
reactions, modes of thought? I wondered 
whether they might be different in their love- 
making, whether the dusky temptress might 
not have other lines for her victim than does 
her white counterpart. 

When, however, I heard one come back at 
her beau with that ancient wheeze, "Cose 
its different with a man," I knew they were 
just the same, black or white. 



[9] 



NOTES ON CONTENTS 

PAGE 

A Good Listener 1 

Written on a train, Burlington, Vermont, to 
Boston, Massachusetts, February 26, 1914. 

Comfort Before Piety 3 

Lansing, Michigan, March 6, 1917. 

One of Our Most Terrible Quarrels 5 

Maywood, Virginia, April 20, 1924. 

A Superfluous Government Official 7 

Maywood, Virginia, 1926. 

As Different as Black and White 9 

Washington, District of Columbia, March 12, 
1932. 



[11] 




4Kri>lwj 



with the compliments of 
Waldo Lee McAtee 



4 



L. ' n 



Copyright, 1935, by 
Waldo Lee McAtee 



©ClA A 192394 

Published by the Author 

Washington, D. C. 

1935 

DEC 23 193b 



FOREWORD 

This Medley consists in part of free verse, 
in part of other forms of versification. Free 
verse, while usually cited as a distinctly mod- 
ern development, was certainly the medium 
of Walt Whitman (1855-1892) and in part 
that of Matthew Arnold (1822-1888). Not 
mentioned in standard works on versification, 
free verse has had special vogue in America 
since 1914 (Amy Lowell). "It discards tra- 
ditional rhyme, meter, and form in favor of 
cadence." Thus it is allied to rhythmic prose, 
a device used by great orators through all re- 
corded time and which, if rhythmic through- 
out, would be free verse. The author pub- 
lished one example, "As Love Should Be," in 
1931 ("Through the Years," p. 6), and now 
offers five others. In general a note of pessi- 
mism seems to prevail but this should not be 
taken as symptomatic, for in the same period 
many things of different tenor were written. 



THE YOUTHFUL SUICIDE 

A pagan I perhaps, 

But well I know 

The bitter part of life blots out the sweet. 

I do not wait for God, 

Nor time, nor fate, 

But set the hour myself, 

Take leave 

Before 

Vain dreams of happiness, 

Make me too weak. 



[1] 



THE GREEN-EYED GIRL 

She was called a green-eyed girl, 

But her iris held the hue 

Of a robin's egg, 

Of a turquoise, 

Or of an enchanted sea 

In which a soul could drown contentedly. 

A trick on turning her glance aside, 

A lingering flash from half-closed eyes, 

Seemed full 

Of meaning. 

About that meaning 

Oft I thought and dreamed despairing. 

She has been my wife these twenty years, 

That so-called green-eyed girl, 

Her half glance, 

Full of meaning. 

As to that meaning, 

Now, as then, I am no nearer learning. 



[2] 



ASAIL 

There she goes, 

Jauntily, 

As trim a craft 

As e'er you saw; 

She carries a precious cargo — 

My heart. 

Will she bring it safe to port? 

I wonder 

And am afraid. 



[3] 



DESOLATION 

Space so vast that all it holds seems small, 

Air still, coagulated, dead, 

Light, intense, of ghastly brilliance, 

Heat of an oven, all-pervading. 

Yonder the drab canyon wall, 

Here the bitter, brazen lake 

Like a molten mirror, 

On which waterfowl appear 

Without a sound, 

And from which 

As silently they depart, 

Pointing the stillness of an empty world. 

Then, no life, no motion, 

Like doom descends, the stifling embrace 

Of unendurable desolation. 



[4] 



THE DESERT AND A MAN 

Still, deathly still, 

But searing 1 , blinding, radiant, 

Like iron heated white. 

Arid, breathless, smothering, 

A place no man can live. 

About him plants mis-shapen 

Lift stumpy arms; 

Others spectral, seem 

Like skeletons unfleshed. 

As in a dreamland world, 

The man creeps on. 

Vastness that imprisons, 

And from which 

Steps dragging in the muffling sand 

Are powerless to escape. 

Awhile all seems unreal, 

The man still lives. 

Anon when he is dead 

It will again be real, and 

Placid, 

Serene, 

Content. 



[5] 



UNREQUITED LOVE 

Let it rain ! 
Cruel, biting, stinging drops, 
Come break, come pierce, my fevered skin ! 
Welcome, oh swift, cold pain, 

Hard, harder rain, 
Sweet counterpoise, assuaging 

Inner pain. 

Let it blow! 
Fierce, cutting, freezing gusts, 
Come chill, congeal, my heated cheeks! 
Welcome icy bearer of the snow, 

Hard, harder blow, 
Sweet enemy, distracting 

Inner woe. 



[6] 



BLUE EYES 

It is always nice to watch the sky 
With its fleets of clouds a-drifting by, 
But more I like to gaze on high 
Seeking a match for my loved one's eye. 

Oft midst the clouds is a bit of blue 
Like a violet petal blurred with dew; 
Thus are your eyes if you only knew 
When I tell you my love and you know it's true. 



[7] 



FOGGY BOTTOM 

I live among the black men 

And find it better so 

I walk their street, we nod and speak 

No further does it go. 

So different from the white men, 
They neither ask nor tell, 
I live among the black men 
And like it very well. 



[8] 



CYPRIPEDIA 

Coarse names the plain folk give you 
But they don't mean them so. 
They deem you as I deem you, 
Fair as any flower to blow. 
They praise you as I praise you, 
Oh! pineland's lovely sprite, 
They see you as I see you, 
Radiant, fair, and bright. 
You do suggest a maiden, 
A dryad kneeling nude, 
Startled, with blushes laden, 
When by her lover woo'd. 



[9] 



SUMMER'S DRUMMER 

When flowers of spring have faded, 

And we're too dull and jaded, 
E'en to cry you mercy, burning- summer ; 

There comes a lusty fellow, 

In coat of green and yellow 
Who, hot or not, is your official drummer. 

When clouds float low and lazy 

And heat drives us near crazy 
He seems to thrive the best, this doughty hummer, 

He sees in hills and dales, 

He hums and runs his scales 
And proves to all he is a mighty thrummer. 

This player acts his part 

With almost perfect art, 
He is indeed a fascinating: mummer ! 



[10] 



NOTES ON CONTENTS 

Free Verse 

page 

The Youthful Suicide 1 

May wood, Va., January 24, 1922. 

The Green-Eyed Girl 2 

Maywood, Va., April 25-27, 1922. 

Asail 3 

Washington, D. C, May 2, 1929. In an automo- 
bile after seeing the girl, skirt flying in the 
breeze. 

Desolation 4 

Spokane, Washington, August 10, 1934. Inspired 
by a visit the day before to Alkali Lake, Grand 
Coulee, Washington. 

The Desert and a Man 5 

Washington, D. C, October-November, 1934. In- 
spiration in part the same as for '"Desolation," 
in part of the sajuaro country (Arizona) seen 
in June, 1934. 

Other Verse 

Unrequited Love 6 

Maywood, Va., January 22, 1929. After a walk 
in the wintry wind. 

Blue Eyes 7 

Valdosta, Ga., March 11, 1929. On a railway sid- 
ing waiting for another train to pass. 



[11] 



NOTES ON CONTENTS— (Continued) 

PAGE 

Foggy Bottom 8 

Washington, D. C, March 27, 1932. 

Cypripedia 9 

Washington, D. C, July 1, 1933. Under the gen- 
eric name of the pink lady's-slipper, I have re- 
corded sentiments inspired by a painting by 
Sargeant Kendall seen in a San Francisco art 
gallery in September, 1932, as well as on a pre- 
vious occasion. 

Summer's Drummer 10 

Washington, D. C, July 1, 1933. The subject is, 
of course, the cicada, harvest-fly, or dog-day 
locust. 



[12] 



----' im wiMi 



3-.\<lo wee 



<V 



ignettes 



WITH THE COMPLIMENTS OF 
/ 

Waldo Lee McAtee 



Copyright, 1936, by- 
Waldo Lee McAtee 



@ciH 



101 464 



Published by the Author 

Washington, D. C. 

1936 

OK 23 035 



PLAYMATES 

The sun shone warm on the old wooden steps. 
There sat a little boy treasuring a bright copper 
penny. At his side and on other steps, above and 
below, were milk snakes enjoying the sun. Their 
colors of yellow, brown and gray were soft and 
pleasing. They and the boy seemed well content. 
He stroked them gently on the head and back. 
They liked it and seemed to enjoy also being held 
and petted. Every warm day it was the same; 
they were playmates. 



[1] 



THE FIRST BIRD 

Often I was attracted to a wood not far from 
home. It was not a primeval forest, for cattle 
browsed in it, and it boasted no great trees. But 
it had a share of beauty, as has every wood, and 
it was a safe retreat. The beeches and maples 
made leafy walls and ceiling's, but they were not 
confining ; there was room to feel free, and to see 
far, and always a comfortable, restful solitude so 
different from the busy jangle of the town, that 
it seemed as of another world. 

There the mandrake spread its cleft umbrella 
in the spring and ripened its yellow fruit in sum- 
mer. On the edges were persimmons and in the 
wood pawpaws which catered pleasantly to boyish 
palates. There a ground squirrel scampered gath- 
ering beechnuts, which he carried in bulging 
cheeksful to his burrow. 

In the wood one day, there came a bird, never 
seen before. It was small and neatly gray with 
black on top of its head. It clambered about on 
the bark and seemed to go head down just as well 
as any other way. My attention was fixed, I felt 
I must know about that upside down bird, its 
name, and all I could learn. It was the first bird 
really seen. Ever since, there has been bird after 
bird to learn, to study, and to love, and a bird 
world in which solace from care, peace after tur- 
moil, has never been sought in vain. 



[2] 



FRIENDLY TOADS 

"So here you are again my little friends. Every 
evening you come and each time I am glad to see 
you. Come on to my porch little toads and catch 
the flies. When all are here, I will let you in the 
house. I will open the door so you can catch the 
kitchen flies. Hop in, little bright-eyes, my always 
welcome guests. 

"There, you have done well. I hope you are 
not as hungry as you were. Perhaps you want 
to leave now, so I will let you out. 

"Oh! the dogs and cats have come, but don't 
be afraid. Now Bruno and Bing and kitties all, 
behave! Do not touch, do not worry my little 
friends. Do not take them in your mouths, for 
they will burn you. If you bite them you will be 
sorry. Here you, big, rough Bruno, don't do that ! 

"Come, little toad, do not cringe so, nothing shall 
hurt you. There, snuggle in my hands, I will take 
you to a safe place. Hop away in the soft, cool 
grass; but come again tomorrow." 



[3] 



THE TORTOISE IN THE GARDEN 

Mr. Tortoise, the broken yellow pattern on your 
glossy carapace hints of mystery, is perchance a 
magic figure, for not even your bro'ther can have 
one just like it. And the way you can pull in 
head, legs, and tail, and, when you are not too 
fat, close up your shell like a snug house, is cer- 
tainly a mystery. 

"But it is no mystery, is it, that you an I can 

be friends? Can't you in some way recall that I 

am the one who last summer gave you quartered 

apples, and bread soaked in milk? You need not 

close the doors against me; I know you will 

realize that anew, when the weather grows warmer 

and you are more awake. 

* * * 

"You are in my garden now and I like to have 
you. But see this board on edge? You can't 
climb it, and there is one like it on each side of 
every bed. They are to keep you from spoiling 
a whole head of lettuce, or a whole tomato, when 
you are hungry. Yon bore into things, bad table 
manners men think, but I'll give you all the lettuce 
leaves and all the slices of tomato you can hold. 

"There is deep, soft loam everywhere for your 
burrows ; there is water in which you can soak 
when you please ; and other tortoises will come 
along. There is no reason why you should not 
stay, and I hope you will. We were friends last 
summer; can't we be friends again?" 

[4] 



HELPING THE GREAT LAUREL 

Near the city there was only one colony of the 
great laurel and that the sole representation of the 
plant for many miles. On a prominence of the 
rocky palisades of the river, a score of plants 
stood at the very brink, where quarrying opera- 
tions from both sides threatened to engulf them. 
Their fine foliage in winter, and beautiful flowers 
in spring, had tempted visitors ignorant, perhaps, 
of their rarity and isolation, so that the older 
plants had been demolished. Some smaller shrubs 
and seedlings surviving, however, gave opportu- 
nity for rescue. 

Ample balls of earth inclosing the roots were 
carefully dug, wrapped, and carried to a reser- 
vation where safety would be assured. There in 
soil pockets on the northern exposure of sheltering 
rocks they were reset the same day. Then, and 
at intervals for a few seasons, they were well 
watered, and mulched with partly decayed leaves 
from a thicket of their nearest relative of the re- 
gion, the little laurel, until vigorous new growth 
proved that they were estabished and happy. From 
that time their luxuriant green leaves, and later 
in season, their numerous trusses of lovely flowers, 
gave all the thanks plants can give for help in 
time of need. 



[5] 



GROWING FRUIT FOR PLEASURE 

As soon as the strawberries reddened in my 
little patch, the woodthrushes came. Every bit of 
red was eaten and the berries could not ripen fast 
enough to satisfy the birds. They were lovely 
pilferers, though, in their spotted white vests and 
russet coats ; and when they brought their tottery 
young and as if by right fed them my berries, in 
my patch right under my very nose, they could 
have had every one for all of me ; and so in time 
they did. 

It was much the same with the cherries when 
the robins and the catbirds found them, but no 
cherry is, in my eyes, worth one view of a perky 
robin on the lawn or one flash of a catbird flipping 
into a bush with a saucy miaou. In fact, the truth 
is, I would rather have the birds than the fruit 
any day. A few cents would buy as much fruit 
as I could raise, but nothing could buy the pleasure 
I had in seeing the birds, hearing their songs, and 
learning about their lives and wavs. 



[6] 



A VIRGINIA FEEDING STATION 

When new-fallen snow deeply blankets the 
earth and the air is still filled with swirling flakes, 
a well-kept feeding station has its greatest value 
not only to the birds, for sustenance, but also to 
its keeper, for beauty. In the midst of the storm 
come starlings in fluttering, scrambling crowds, 
so eager for food they must all eat at once. They 
take anything, but in the cold and snow like suet 
best. English sparrows, their equals in avidity, 
prefer seeds, although they try the suet so as not 
to miss anything that other birds seem to find 
good. 

The visits of these birds are accentuated by the 
blustery weather and the regular patrons of the 
station — chickadees, nuthatches, woodpeckers, 
jays, cardinals — come more often and stay longer. 
It is the unusual visitors, though, that most bene- 
fit from the emergency supply of food, and whose 
visits most gratify the owner of the station. 

The chewink, lured from its thicket, finds 
broken grain, seeds and crumbs to its liking, but 
this bird must be enjoyed at the moment, for as 
soon as the snow recedes, back it will go to its 
secluded haunts. The Carolina wren finds the 
cold-hardened suet almost too much for its slender 
beak, but must dig away at it to live. Here a week 
of deep snow means death to Carolina wrens that 
cannot find emergency rations, while the pert little 
winter wren in some way still finds its natural 
food and very rarely pays any attention to a feed- 
ing station. Weatherbeaten, the fruit-eating mock- 
ingbird tentatively tries the suet, but has no taste 

[7] 



for it. Cut apples are just right, however, and 
when held by flat-headed nails or other device, are 
hollowed out to the skin. Sometimes soaked raisins 
will help a mocker through a stormy, period or 
attract a flock of the silken-sleek cedarbirds. What 
beauties they are ! Whether aristocrat or plebeian 
of the bird world, all guests are welcome and their 
coming of itself rewards hospitality — repays the 
keeper in full for all his care. 

THE BIRD MAN 

He lived on an island alone. He seemed a part 
of nature and he applied the golden rule. The 
mockingbirds nested in vines on the house. They 
were not disturbed by his comings and goings 
but seemed to regard him as part of their world. 
Their song was as much for him as for themselves. 

The porch was never bare of crumbs or other 
tidbits and the cardinals and other finches came 
confidently. They hopped through the kitchen 
windows, also, even when the bird man was cook- 
ing, for he was ever gentle and there was always 
food. 

The larger birds that by reason of size alone 
could hardly be so intimate, shared the confidence 
shown by their smaller brethren. Coots played in 
the water about his boat and herons sat in trees 
near the house. Away from there they might be 
shy and watchful, for all men are not kind. There 
the bird man was the whole human race and he 
was kind. The island seemed an earthly paradise. 

[8] 



A TAME DOE 

"Would you like to see Betsy?" 

"And who is Betsy?" 

"Oh, you don't know about her, do you ? Why ! 
Betsy is our tame doe ; she was here just a minute 
ago." 

Opening the door, the hostess continued, talking 
now to Betsy, "Still here ; like to have your head 
rubbed some more, and eat a few more apples? 
I know you need them now, for I see your two 
babies over there. Bring them all the way next 
time." 

As strangers, we stayed in the house so as not 
to disturb this charming scene. Later, when our 
hostess returned, she explained, "Betsy first came 
last winter when the snow was so deep and laid 
so long. We fed her and gradually she grew 
tame so that she seemed to like to' be petted. For 
a time she disappeared but she came back just 
a few days ago, as gentle as ever. She brought 
two fawns with her, but they are shy, and so far 
have kept in the shelter of the bushes. They will 
tame, too, I think, and we shall be glad to have 
them. I wish we could take care of all the deer 
in hard weather, or any other time, of course, 
when they need it." 



[9] 



TH'E ABANDONED FARM 

Where are the little fishes that used to be here, 
and were not much afraid when the horses and 
cows put their noses in the trough? -Little fishes, 
you were my friends in those long ago days. 
Where are you now ? 

Where is the big fish that lived in the spring? 
The deep, cold spring where we got all our drink- 
ing water. He too was not afraid for none of us 
ever harmed him. 

But most I miss the calves and colts, and the 
dogs and cats with whom I played. The barns 
and sheds that sheltered them, are all gone. The 
place lives only in my memory. In reality it is 
dead and desolate. 

The house has fallen into the cellar — that once 
cool, moist cellar where the crocks of milk and 
cream, the moulds of butter, and rows of good 
things in jars, were among the joys of child- 
hood. Here is a fragment of the stair, the out- 
side stair we climbed to the attic. There we sank 
deep into feather-beds, and slept so soundly we 
awoke only when pulled out and shaken. 

There is a bit of the rocker in which the house 
mother knit after long hours of harder work. Oh, 
the toil that went into it all, the farm, the barns, 
the home. Now all seems wasted. The upset 
cupboards are empty, the ridge-pole is broken, 
the family is ended. 



[10] 



NOTES ON CONTENTS 

As the title, "Vignettes", implies, these essays 
are pictures of experiences that remain a little 
more sharply drawn than others against the back- 
ground of the years. The extent to which they 
are, or are not, biographical may be gleaned 
from the following remarks. All were written at 
Washington, D. C, September-December, 1936. 

PAGE 

Playmates 1 

The locality is the village of Jalapa, Indiana, 
where I was born; the experience personal; 
the date about 1888. 

The First Bird 2 

Krinn's Woods, near the western part of 
Marion, Indiana, where I grew up; personal; 
about 1892. The "ground squirrel" is the 
chipmunk; the "first bird," the white-breasted 
nuthatch. 

Friendly Toads 3 

Seven Locks, Md., where toads were seen to 
make such fly-catching visits at the home of 
Mrs. Stewart, a good neighbor of the Wash- 
ington Biologists' Field Club; about 1906; 
the rescue of a toad from some cats and a 
dog took place near Pennifield's Lock, Md., 
thirty years later. 

The Tortoise in the Garden 4 

Mrs. Stewart's garden, in other words, the 
same locality and period as the preceding; 
we usually had partially tamed tortoises, also, 
about the house on Plummers Island, home 
of the Club. 

[P3 



NOTES ON CONTENTS— (Continued) 
Helping the Great Laurel 5 

Transplanting Rhododendron maximum from a 
spot near Chain Bridge, Va,, to Plummers 
Island, Md., and nearby mainland; personal; 
June, 1908. 

Growing Fruit for Pleasure 6 

Arlington County, Va.; personal; about 1918. 

A Virginia Feeding Station 7 

Same locality and period as the preceding. 

The Bird Man 8 

About a man whose name I do not recall, who 
lived on a marsh island near Brunswick, Ga.; 
June, 1923. 

A Tame Doe 9 

National Park headquarters, Mount Rainier, 
Washington; the doe tamed by the wife of 
one of the officials; 1934. 

The Abandoned Farm 10 

The farm between Marion and Jalapa, Indiana, 
once belonging to Elijah Bloomer, where I 
spent a few summers in adolescence, about 
1895-1897, and found in the state described 
in 1934. 



[12] 






^rifles 

With the Compliments of 
Waldo Lee McAtee 



Copyright, 1937, by 
Waldo Lee McAtee 



DEC 22 \m 



Published by the Author 
Washington, D. C. 

1937 

Mk A 253233 



ONE OF NATURE'S MARVELS 

The grasp of man averages inches thirty, 
Deem you the reason hid in murks? 
Think ; many a waist also is thirty, 
How wondrous Nature are thy works ! 



[1] 



HOW IT AFFECTED MARY 

'Twas only a caterpillar 
I placed on Mary's wrist, 
But on crawling upward 
The beastie did insist. 

At this I put a question 
As pink her cheeks did flee, 
"Does it tickle your arm, my Mary?" 
"No, it gets my goat," said she. 



[2] 






EYES OF HER 

She was no so fair as to make ye stare, 
Wi' specks and freckles here and there, 
But oh ! the eyes of her. 

Tho trim o' form and neat o' clothes, 
Ye could no miss that bunty nose, 
But for the eyes of her. 

Her hair so like a horse's tail, 
To catch a lover it would fail, 
But not those eyes of her. 

Ye might think it time to go 
Some moment when they did not show, 
Those speaking eyes of her, 

But let her lashes lift a bit 
Bound and helpless ye would sit 
Slave to those eyes of her. 

If heart failed ye 'bout her nose 
An instant when her lids did close 
Hiding the eyes of her, 

One look more into their deeps 
It would shake ye with its leaps 
All for the eyes of her. 

Sure they were a wondrous pair, 
Slaying swains without a care, 
Gallant eyes of her. 



[3] 



THE HUNTRESS 

How quick to note the stranger in the gates 
And to appraise this windfall of the fates. 
If he's approved she soon will act upon it 
And 'spite him add a feather to her bonnet. 



[4] 



A STORMY SUNDAY MORNING 

The clam'rous cocks impatient crow, 
But hear yon rantin' blasties blow, 
Come nestle in my arms,. my jo! 

I hear the hungry beasties low, 
But din ye see the swirlin' snow? 
Just cuddle closer, come, my jo ! 

See now the weak gray day doth show 
The storm gusts whippin' to and fro, 
Come snuggle to me, Bess, my jo ! 

What if the church-bell's callin' oh, 
We're cozier here than there, I trow, 
Let's clasp the tighter, Bessie, jo! 



[5] 



TO THE INSECT COLLECTOR 

It pains me, my lad, to see you in town 
When it's harvest time down on the farm ; 
It grieves me, my boy, that you're wasting 

the hours 
Now it's harvest time down on the farm. 
And, my son, what a pity you're strolling 

the city 
Instead of your usual employ 
Of picking rare bugs from the tops of the 

flowers 
In harvest time down on the farm. 



[6] 



COLOR SCHEME OF A PERFECT LADY 

Her pumps and her hose 
Are pale lavender mauve 
And so is her nose. 

Her coat of some weeks, 
A magenta cerise, 
Matches her cheeks. 

Her scarf the wind flips, 
A lurid vermillion, 
Agrees with her lips. 

Her neck 'neath its down : 
Does she wash it, I wonder? 
For it sure is nut brown. 



[7] 



THE OBSTACLE 

I like her form, 
Her manner warm. 
I like her hair 
And skin so fair. 
I like her clothes, 
Her cheeks of rose. 
I would propose 
But damn her nose. 



[8] 



NORTHEASTER 

"When the wind is in the East 

'Tis good for neither man nor beast." 

S'long's the weather holds noreast, 

Remember what ole Mother Goose says. 

It'll keep a-rainin', sure's fate 

Sometimes heavy, 

Sometimes like whoever tends the pourin' 

Fergits jest what he's doin'. 

But don't ye think it's cause 

He's running out o' worter. 

Lan' sakes, No, 

Fer in a minute 

It'll be sloshing down agin 

Like all gitout. 

S'long's the weather holds noreast, 

Best mind what Mother Goose says. 



[9] 



NOTES ON CONTENTS 

Page 
One of Nature's Marvels 1 

Washington, D. C, August 20, 1914. 

How It Affected Mary 2 

Washington, D. C, December 23, 1917. 

Eyes of Her ^.__3 

Bradentown, Fla., October 2-3, 1918. The eyes 
were seen behind a ticket office window in 
Savannah, Ga., September 25, 1918. To tell 
the truth, their surroundings were not unat- 
tractive. That thought providing the con- 
trast essential to the composition came later. 

The Huntress 4 

Bradentown, Fla., October 3, 1918. Prompted 
by a curious glance; written while waiting 
for supper. 

A Stormy Sunday Morning - - - - 5 

Maywood, Va., February 29-March 2, 1920. In 
imitation of the style of Robert Burns. 

To the Insect Collector - 6 

Maywood, Va., December 29, 1920. Composed 
about 5:00 A. M. as I awaited the time to 
arise and prepare for a Christmas bird census. 

Color Scheme of a Perfect Lady - - 7 

Washington, D. C, January 22, 1921. 

The Obstacle 8 

Washington, D. C, July 9, 1922. 



Northeaster --------- 9 

pril 
i at r 

[11] 



Washington, D. C, April 16-17, 1933. While 
listening to the rain at night. 



Slightly 
^punaent 



With the 
Compliments of 

UMldo Lee McAtee 




Copyright 1938 by 
ildo I.ce McAtee 



/CI 



284552 



I l: hcd by the Author 
Washington, D. C. 
1938 



TOURISTS ON PARADE 

Seeing it costs from about $25 a day up 
to enjoy the sights of the supposedly public 
park we were inspecting, it seemed rea- 
sonable to assume that the visitors were 
representative of superior elements of our 
population. Realization that this was not 
true came suddenly like the awakening 
from a dream. As remarks floated back 
in the sight-seeing bus, their absurdity and 
inanity grew maddening. They inspired 
such musings as, "Are these people morons, 
moronic fools, or damn moronic fools?" It 
was a real pleasure to revolve these appel- 
lations in the mind in all of their permuta- 
tions and combinations to determine which 
was most fitting. Our decision is given in 
the sequel. 

The guide having called attention to a 
mountain bluebird, one of the bluest of blue 
creatures, an elderly dame fatuously re- 
remarked, "Oh yes, that reminds me of 
our canary. He's one of those talking 
canaries, you know, calls me 'Sweetheart' 
and 'Dearie', [here an arch titter] so cute 



Having read Zane Grey, the typical tour- 
ists expect to see bad men skipping about 
the canyon rims, and think nothing grows 
in the West but greasewood and sagebrush. 
Innocently asking a guide whether a plant 
they point out is sagebrush when it's Cot- 
tonwood, or greasewood when it's juniper, 
are among the mildest of their follies. 

When the guide gives the peculiarities 
of the local climate with such impressive 
detail as 100 inches of snow, they retort 



[l] 



with "Now back in Jersey, so and so hap- 
pens," a comparison so inept as to occur to 
none but a moron. In the presence of un- 
approachable natural grandeur, they recall 
petty local lore ad nauseam. One wonders 
why they do not tell the guide (as well as 
unpaid listeners) the sign of the moon in 
which they cut their toenails. 

They mistake erosional phenomena for 
volcanic, and volcanic for glacial, and ask 
whether any of the dinosaurs are still 
living in the canyon. They dote and drivel 
all the day, inspiring in us a vast and abid- 
ing sympathy for the hapless guides who 
must listen to them and still treat them as 
if they were intelligent and reasonable 
human beings. 

Sinclair Lewis called them Babbitts, but 
our own auto-suggested term, moronic 
damn fools, seems more descriptive and 
infinitely more satisfying. 



[2] 



EXTRA PAPER! 

The cry of "Extra ! Extra Paper !" seems 
usually to come in what are sometimes curi- 
ously called the silent watches of the night. 
It is a disturbing, throbbing sound that 
arouses you to consciousness despite the 
depth of your slumber. An ululation, now 
dying away, again rising to a new cre- 
scendo, it seems to spread over the city like 
a wave impulse from the center of a pool, 
soon lapping on every shore. 

It is an exciting cry like that of "Fire! 
Fire!," perhaps because its makers, by their 
running and shouting, are themselves ex- 
cited. As it swiftly approaches, or breaks 
out in new centers, here, there, everywhere, 
it acquires a thrilling, a portentous signifi- 
cance. You feel that so impressive a demon- 
stration must be connected with an impor- 
tant happening. What the event may be 
can never be learned from the cries, which 
though loud and all pervading, are unin- 
telligible. "Extree! Extree! Read about! 
Ree ow! ow! ow!, Extray! Extray! Ray! 
ay! ay! ay!, Papo! Papo! oh! oh! oh! 
oh !" The shouts inspire but they do not in- 
form, so you decide to get a paper. 

Far and fast the sound travels but it is 
difficult to descry one of its makers. There !, 
one must be coming in the next block, but 
no, the sound fades away down a side 
street. Here one is coming through but 
howling like a madman, he seems bent on 
selling his papers somewhere beyond the 
city limits. The chance of actually con- 
tacting one of these emissaries seems small 
indeed. When one is heard on a course 



[3] 



that apparently will bring him by your 
door, you cannot descend in time to in- 
tercept his headlong flight. 

If you cry "Hey! boy!" from the win- 
dow, your call is lost in the general hulla- 
balloo; it is a small sound drowning in 
a big one, producing no more effect than 
a raindrop falling into a lake. 

You may make the trip down and up 
the stairs again and again, you may 
lean out the window at the risk of your 
neck and immortal soul, you may yell all 
you please, but the running and crying of 
"Extra!" does not halt. Then as suddenly 
as it arose the tumult and the shouting 
die away — and you have no paper. 

Resignedly you conclude "Oh well, I'll 
see what it was all about in the morning 
edition." On examining the paper with 
care as you breakfast, you cannot for the 
life of you decide which item inspired all 
the commotion of the night before. 



[4] 



A PERFECT GENTLEMAN 

The dictionary reveals nothing as to the 
meaning of this phrase and no wonder. A 
leading lady novelist applied it, in one of 
our most upright and decorous magazines, 
to a Western rancher I knew well. He was 
a he-man of a very rugged type and in the 
company of men, at least, profane, telling 
or relishing a risque story as well as any- 
one, and to all indications a good follower 
of Martin Luther's advice as to loving wine, 
woman, and song. Just what did the lady 
novelist mean? 

A veteran of the Klondike gold rush, 
dining in the States a generation later, ran 
across a former pal; heedless of other 
diners, they went into a bear-hug and 
greeted each other in language appropriate 
to the time when they had been comrades. 
With advisable symbolism, the exchange 
was something like this : "Well, I'll be — . — 



you old " said 

the one ; "Well your hide, you lousy, 

horse-stealing old , I shore am 

glad to see you." In an interview, later, 
one, an American, said of the other, "He's 
an Italian count now, but that doesn't make 
a bit of difference, for he's a perfect gen- 
tleman." 

Another perfect gentleman I personally 
know is half-stewed all the time. He is a 
fair sample of a whiskey-and-soda crowd 
whose entire life is one round of minor 
vices and whose oft-spoken criterion for the 
acceptance of new acquaintances is ability 
to behave like one of themselves, that is, 
like a perfect gentleman. 



[5] 



By this time the reader will have noted 
that the expression "a perfect gentleman," 
while intended to convey approval, may 
have a different meaning for every person 
using it. From the examples cited, it seems 
to be a phrase of no precise descriptive 
value and except from just the right source, 
hardly to be welcomed as applied to one's 
self. * 

To epitomize, we probably must admit 
that a shop girl or a social leader, a gold- 
digger or a grandma, a prissie or a push- 
over, each has her own idea as to what con- 
stitutes a perfect gentleman. Again it is 
quite likely that a preacher or a professor, 
a gangster or a gigolo, a pugilist or a 
pansy, would each have for the remark a 
highly individual implication. 



[6] 



AMATEUR FIREMEN 

If you are a typical American citizen, 
some fine day a real estate agent will sell 
you a suburban home. Among advantages 
of the place, according to his optimistic 
point of view, may be that it is in the same 
block as a fire station. You will be well 
advised to tell him that you prefer any 
other block. 

This advice comes from one who learned 
about amateur firemen by being in the 
same block. Rehearsals are a great joy to 
the volunteer fireman ; they give excuse for 
much jangling of bells, both at the station 
house and on the speeding truck, the oper- 
ation of which provides opportunity for ig- 
noring all traffic regulations. At the first 
sound of the bell you must drop whatever 
you are doing, rush forth, and snatch your 
children from the path of the roaring, 
clanging machine. As it whizzes by, the fire- 
men, despite having at that instant almost 
murdered your offspring, wave to you with 
unaffected friendliness and innocent joy; 
they are having a wonderful time. 

The volunteer fireman would rather go to 
a fire than eat. In his zeal to save seconds 
he takes short cuts over your hedge and 
through your flower beds, wrecking every- 
thing. When on a call, his mission not only 
makes him ignore the ordinary amenities 
but changes him so that he, who otherwise 
seems an inoffensive and peaceful neighbor, 
is transformed into a being of quite a differ- 
ent sort. He is bitterly disappointed by a 
small fire ; a little blaze in a chicken house 
or other outbuilding is the grief of his life. 



[71 



The most enjoyable conflagration of all is 
one in a residence so distant that when the 
company arrives, all that can be done is to 
sit down and watch it burn. That is ideal ! 

When, perchance, the fireman arrives at 
an earlier stage, he seizes his favorite im- 
plement, or rather weapon — the axe. If the 
fire isn't going any too well, he at once 
chops some holes in the lower part of the 
structure, or knocks out a few windows, so 
as to get up a real good draft. If not too 
late to enter the place, the havoc he can 
wreak by a little axe play is marvelous. I 
could not make a better wish for my dear- 
est enemy than that if his house caught fire 
he would receive the prompt assistance of 
a typical crew of volunteer firemen. 

The favorite hour for the serious exer- 
cises of the amateur firemen is about 4 or 5 
A. M., so that by the time the thoroughly 
awakened neighborhood settles down, ev- 
eryone oversleeps and is late to work. This 
happened a few times too many for the 
peace of mind of a school teacher who 
roomed with us. She must have become 
a little vengeful, for one day she reported 
with apparent satisfaction the following in- 
cident at school. She had asked Tommy 
to correct the sentence, "Before any dam- 
age could be done, the fire was put out by 
the volunteer fire brigade." Tommy's cor- 
rection was: "The fire was put out before 
any damage could be done by the volunteer 
fire brigade." 

"Well," I agreed, "Tommy certainly 
knows his firemen." 



[8] 



NOTES ON CONTENTS 

Page 
Tourists on Parade 1 

Conceived Grand Canyon, Arizona, June 9; 
written on train in Nevada, July 29, 1934. 

Extra Paper ! 3 

The inspiration is obvious; written at the 
scene, Washington, D. C, January 4-5, 1936. 

A Perfect Gentleman ------ 5 

Washington, D. C, conceived about 1915, 
written November, 1936. 

Amateur Firemen 7 

Based on experience in Maywood, Virginia; 
sketched there years ago; completed, Wash- 
ington, D. C, January 30, 1938. 



[11] 



X ^oJUUi 



Pamphlet 
Collection 






omeiphat 



omber 



With the Compliments of 
Waldo LeeJMcAtee 






Copyright, 1939, by 
Waldo Lee McAtee 



©ClA A 318537 



Published by the Author 

Washington, D. C. 

1939 



FOREWORD 

Jl OETS may seem, perhaps, too much pre- 
occupied with death. The reason appears 
to be that the theme is highly emotional. 
Poetry's chief concern is with emotion, and 
death and its associations inspiring so great 
a share of our deeper feelings naturally 
loom large in poetry, which is but a reflec- 
tion of human experience. 

The writer dabbles a little in all sorts 
of writing and his readers need only recall 
his "Trifles" of 1937 to realize he is not 
"typed" and that the present collection of 
poems is no more an epitome of his reac- 
tions than are any of the previous and de- 
cidedly different presentations. 



[1] 



WHEN ALL ONE LOVED IS GONE 

Friends of youth have heard the call ; 
College mates, I've farewelled all; 
How hard it is this side the wall, 
When friends one loved are gone. 

I loved a woman, she is dead; 
I loved another, love soon fled; 
How hard it is to go ahead, 
When hearts one loved are gone. 

I loved my work, I'm on half -pay; 
I loved my chores, but sons say nay; 
How hard it is to pass a day 
When tasks one loved are gone. 

When friends and lovers are no more, 
When usefulness at work is o'er, 
It is not hard to leave this shore, 
When all one loved is gone. 



[2] 



HEARTBREAK 

We hardly knew the stranger youth 

Ere he had passed away; 

Yet what we knew we greatly loved 

Far more than we could say. 

We hardly knew that he was dead 

Than did a maid appear, 

Who gently claimed him as her own 

All stark there on his bier. 

We knew not whence she came, nor how, 

But from that last sad hour 

She drooped and faded in a day 

Just like a broken flower. 

What tie there was between those two 

We guessed but never knew. 

Oh! why does fate deny love's bliss 

To a pair so leal and true? 



[3] 






TO A SINGING BIRD 

You have not lived as long as I, 
You will not live as long, 
But still your spirit must be high, 
To sing that merry song. 

It is enough for your light heart, 
That now the sky is blue, 
The sun is high, I have my part, 
But I'm not gay like you. 

Is it because of man and bird, 
You do not know that you must die? 
So small a thing as that, gay bird, 
Is that, is that the reason why? 



[4] 



MEMORIAL DAY 

'Mid the serried white stones fluttering, 
Thousands of red, white, and blue, 
In the clear and bright light glowing 
Tribute flowers of every hue. 
For each fallen man a banner, 
For each grave a poppy red, 
Thus the nation e'er remembers 
And reveres its honored dead. 

["Americans are so sentimental."] 

Sentimental, is that faulty? 
When it means to have a heart 
That can be as stern as tender, 
That can play a manly part. 
Sentimental, but we'll fight for 
All the things they died to save, 
And we pledge it every springtime 
As we decorate each grave. 



[5] 



UNENDING YOUTH 

Those who fell were young — 

Young as they were 

When last we clasped their hands, 

Strong, bright-eyed youths, 

Too precious 

For the sacrifice they made. 

Yet one great boon they earned, 

The goal of the alchemists, 

A dream of every man — 

Unending youth. 

They lost their lives 

But life lost too 

Its power to make them old. 

Though we age on, 

They never age; 

Our boys who fell 

Stay ever young. 



[6] 



EPHEMERAL 

As man takes but a little time 
To mingle with the clay, 
So lay the flowers in the grass 
And let them wilt away. 

As man in yielding dust to dust 
Halts little on the way, 
So lay the flowers in the grass 
To perish with the day. 



[7] 



IT WILL NOT MATTER THEN 

Loving as you can, 
Tender as you may, 
Strew the flowers over him 
Who was a friend one day. 

With each friend there goes 
Something of your heart, 
And the remnant will not matter 
When at last you too depart. 



[8] 



REFUGE OF THE COMPASSIONATE 

He was a friend of humankind, 

But every day 

The treacheries of the politicians 

And oppressions of the tyrants 

Racked his soul. 

Now he is gone 

And though mankind is just the same, 

He is in peace, he does not care, 

Because he does not know. 

He was a friend of nature, 

But every day 

The greed of the exploiters 

And the blood lust of the killers 

Blighted his hope. 

Now he is gone 

And though mankind is just the same, 

He is in peace, he does not care, 

Because he does not know. 

Is that the only way to peace 

For those like him? 

Will life forever be so cruel 

That to death we gladly yield? 

That in the grave 

We'll seek refuge 

And though man remains the same, 

We'll be in peace, we shall not care, 

Because we shall not know? 



[9] 






A LONG TIME AGO 

Sitting near the ruddy fire, 
Waiting for the welcome supper, 

Then it was we, 

Now, it is I, alone; 
Hearing the pot so busy bubbling, 
Smelling the stew, its savor steaming, 

Then it was we, 

Now, it is I, alone; 
Why these tears 
For those dear dead years? 

My mother was there, 

My mother with me, 
A long time ago. 



[10] 



EASE IN SONG 

Let anger rise, let wrath prevail 

Then no thought comes untainted. 

Taut brain, set jaw, tense breast, 

The days are worse than wasted. 

In time, blest sleep dissolves the bar 

That in the mind was forged 

And some kind morn one sings again 

Faltering, weak, and broken; 

But oh! how better to sing again, 

E'en though it be a sad song. 
When melts the welded arc in brain 
And clamped jaw relaxes, 
When eases the tight and aching chest 
And song returns unprompted; 
How welcome as an end to pain, 

E'en though it be a sad song. 
When hatred, pride, and anger rule 
And no thought can bring pleasure 
What joy to murmur a song again, 

E'en though it be a sad song. 
Then for the heart's ease, sing and sing, 

E'en though it be a sad song. 



[11] 



NOTES ON CONTENTS 
Foreword - - - - - - - 



When All One Loved is Gone - - - 2 

Washington, D. C, June 29, 30, 1913. Prob- 
ably inspired by conversations with my 
working companion, teacher, and friend, Pro- 
fessor F. E. L. Beal, including the remark 
that, "When a man lives to be seventy he 
sees most of his friends pass away." 

Heartbreak - 3 

Conceived Washington, D. C, July 18, 1917; 
written Bradentown, Fla., October 5, 1918. 
The period of a few days spent in Braden- 
town waiting for a companion on a proposed 
field investigation was, for its length, the 
most productive in creative writing of any 
that I can recall. 

To a Singing Bird -------4 

Inspired by a singing flock of bobolinks near 
Pohick, Va., May 8; written Washington, 
D. C, May 8, 9, and 12, 1938. 

Memorial Day __5 

Washington, D. C, May 30, 1938. This and 
the following three poems were written after 
decorating the graves of fallen friends, in 
Arlington and Rock Creek Cemeteries. 

Unending Youth ------- 6 

Note on "Memorial Day" applies. I had this 
thought in mind for years and finally got in 
the mood for wording it. The poem applies 
to all who made the gallant, though it now 
seems useless, sacrifice, but my inspiration 
in particular was memories of two fine boys 
— Lvman Case Ward (1890-1918) and Doug- 
las Clifford Mabbott (1893-1918)— with whom 
I worked in the Division of Food Habits 
Research in the Biological Survey. 



[12] 



Ephemeral 7 

Note on "Memorial Day" applies. To Maurice 
Crowther Hall (1881-1938) whose funeral I 
had attended the preceding May 3. 

It Will Not Matter Then - - - - 8 

Note on "Memorial Day" applies. To Charles 
Wallace Richmond (1868-1932). 

Generous, genial, gentle friend; amiable, 
witty, regretted companion. 

Refuge of the Compassionate - - - 9 

Washington, D. C, June 5, 12, 1938. Thoughts 
long entertained, crystallized by the funeral 
of Maurice C. Hall to whom they well ap- 
plied. 

He had the philosophy proper to a scient- 
ist, rejecting all superstitions and all as- 
sumptions as to the unknown. For both 
his philosophy and his achievements he 
will be held in respected memory. 

A Long Time Ago ------ 10 

Lost River State Park, W. Va., September 8, 
1938, where I lived much alone for a week; 
descriptive of a surge of emotion inspired 
by a bubbling pot. 

Ease in Song 11 

Washington, D. C; conceived November 9, 
1938; first draft November 27, 1938; second, 
April 16, 1939. Reflects personal experience. 

List of Christmas Booklets - - - - 14 



[13] 



LIST OF CHRISTMAS BOOKLETS 

Number of 
Compositions 
Year Title Prose Poetry 

1920 — Verses 10 

1921 — Morning Reveries 3 2 

1922— Where We Used to 

Fish 3 

1931 — Through the Years 10 

1934— A Few Tales 5 

1935— Medley 10 

1936 — Vignettes 10 

1937— Trifles 9 

1938— Slightly Pungent 4 

1939 — Somewhat Somber 10 



[14] 






! 



4Mju > Wa/fr ft. 



e$Weettdii 



l?jrarttttwttal 
Natural MtHiorg 



With The Compliments Of 
WALDO LEE McATEE 






t/y 






Copyright, 1941, by 
Waldo Lee McAtee 



Published by the Author 

Washington, D. C. 

1941 



A 386027 






-1 1941 



THE NOCTURNALS AND THE DIURNALS 

Like the animal kingdom, the group of govern- 
ment employes can be roughly divided into two 
classes according to the time of their greatest ac- 
tivity. Some are more active by day, others by 
night. Those who are widest awake after dark 
frequent the bowling alleys, pool-rooms, and the- 
aters, or attend parties, receptions, dances, and 
the like. 

Popular expressions relating to this nocturnal 
life comprise some very mixed metaphors. Those 
who habitually keep late hours aire night-owls, 
but it is said they lead a butterfly existence, yet 
real butterflies are never active at night. More 
truly they are compared to moths fluttering 
around a flame, yet they are flames themselves, 
burning the candle at both ends. Piling metaphor 
on metaphor we must record that too much of 
this candle, owl, moth, and butterfly activity by 
night makes drones by day. If we could tuck 
into bed promptly at curfew, or cholorform night- 
ly, some of these nocturnals, we would effect a 
conservation of energy that would soon show in 
their daytime activities, resulting in their transfer 
to the ranks of the diurnals, or workers, the in- 
dustrious class upon which the proper function- 
ing of the federal departments depends. Since 
the steady efforts of the diurnals are what keep 
the organization going, it follows that the noc- 
turnals or drones are more or less parasitic upon 
their fellows. 

RED-TAPE WORMS 

Government bureaus and departments may be 
compared to the human organism. For instance 
[1] 



each has a directing head supposed to contain the 
brain. However, it is remarkable in how many 
cases this has no connection with the backbone 
of the organization. There are parts analogous 
to the limbs and extremities and of course also to 
the internal organs with their usual parasites. 
It is with the intestines that we have particularly 
to do in the present essay, as being afflicted with 
a dangerous ailment. They are chronically and 
in some cases totally obstructed by a super- 
abundance of what is commonly known as red- 
tape. In this indigestible mass live and thrive 
the parasites known as red-tape worms. They 
have many characters in common with ordinary 
tapeworms, and particularly in this respect, that 
while they cannot live without a host to parasitize, 
the host is never better off than when free from 
them, and can contemplate with the liveliest satis- 
faction their utter extinction. 

However, the red-tape worms, ensconced in a 
never-ending supply of their favorite pabulum, 
which forms a barrier protecting them from ex- 
ternal dangers, are totally unaware of the host's 
sentiments respecting themselves. Thus safe in 
their comfortable retreats, they wax in conceit 
until they believe that they are the directing pow- 
er of the organism. Emboldened, some of them 
make excursions from the intestines into other 
parts of the body, always carrying with them 
their favorite red-tape and invariably the result 
is serious illness of the part affected. If they 
near the brain, animation is suspended and if they 
reach it, death ensues. 

Everyone is acquainted with federal bureaus or 
institutions that have red-tape worms in the cere- 
[2] 



bellum that paralyze their activities, and in some 
cases we suspect the parasites are very near the 
cerebrum or center of intelligence. Every or- 
ganization has these pests and every reader can 
recall specimens of this numerous tribe. 

LEAVE SICKNESS 

Some animals den up for the winter, or hiber- 
nate, while others aestivate or intern themselves 
in their burrows to escape the hottest weather. 
Their habits are interesting but by no means so 
remarkable as those of a kind we have in the gov- 
ernment departments that are sick just 30 days 
each year 1 . Their habit is indeed a phenomenal 
one. By what instinct they select days to be sick 
that are neither Sundays, holidays, nor among 
those devoted to annual leave is unknown. One 
is tempted to believe they are sick just when they 
want to be, but this is a paradox for who wants to 
be sick? All in all this is a famous mystery. 

BIG BIRDS AND LITTLE BIRDS 

Commensalism is a relationship between ani- 
mals whereby both profit, but in which, never- 
theless, one of the associated species is essentially 
dependent on the other. Apparently commensal- 
ism has not hitherto been reported among birds. 
Very interesting cases are to be noted, however, 
between the kind of birds commonly known as 
Big Birds (Genus Megornis) and the Toadies 
(Genus Toadius), both of which are fairly com- 



1 When this was written the allowance of sick leave 
was 30 days; now it is 15. 

[33 



mon in the departmental roosts. Birds of the 
genus Megornis undeniably well advanced in the 
bird world, just as certainly are inordinately vain. 
This is their weak point and it is well exploited by 
the little birds of the genus Toadius. By adula- 
tion and by submissiveness the latter humble 
themselves to their overlords and by imitation 
flatter them exceedingly. This is most pleasing 
to the Big Birds and they shelter and protect the 
feeble little Toadies and contribute materially to 
their welfare. The Toadies further derive from 
the Big Birds that part of their learning of which 
they are most proud, and to a large degree, their 
manners and habits. Thus within the narrow limits 
of their adaptiveness, they resemble the Big Birds. 
However, they can always be recognized by their 
timidity except in the presence of their protectors, 
their quick and often radical changes of habit, in 
response to whims actual or inferred of their 
masters, as well as by their general inferiority to 
normal birds. Practically every Big Bird has 
one or more Toadies in attendance so that we 
must conclude that even in the bird world every 
Johnson has his Boswell. 

THE FOOLISH FISH AND THE WISE FISH 

The species known as the Chief Fish shows re- 
markable diversity in habits probably connected 
with the relatively undeveloped state of this spe- 
cies in evolution. However, in this case as in 
others, inexorable fate steps in to remove a fish 
that varies too far from the habits that have been 
found best for its kind. Upon occasion it has been 
observed that certain Chief Fishes have chosen to 
bask contentedly in shallow waters accompanied 

[4] 



only by jeliyfishcs. The latter offer no obstacles 
to the Chief Fish doing exactly as it pleases, but 
on the other hand they have no mode of defense 
useful to their master. They have only certain 
stinging cells with which they irritate but do not 
injure other organisms in their environment. So 
plastic and feeble are they that any storm or dis- 
turbance drives them to cover, leaving the Chief 
Fish alone and unsupported. Such is the case 
with the foolish fish. 

On the other hand, there are Chief Fishes which 
appreciate that permanent welfare can be assured 
only by encouraging the presence of others even 
if smaller individuals of their own kind. These 
companions are adapted to the same mode of life, 
brave any depth, ride out every storm. Foes, 
from whatever direction they come, find deter- 
mined defenders of the school. A Chief Fish so 
attended is supported and protected even in its 
age, and well deserves to be called a wise fish. 

THE ANT THAT HAD SLAVES AND 
THE ANT THAT HAD BRETHREN 

It is well known that certain kinds of ants are 
habitual slave makers and so dependent are they 
upon their slaves that deprived of them they 
perish. Other ants have the practice of slave- 
making developed to a lesser degree and it is with 
a family of these ants that this tale has to do. 
Two brothers in this family differed greatly in 
characteristics ; one of them was a hard and earn- 
est worker, sharing all the tasks, the joys, and the 
sorrows of the family, while the other felt himself 
rather too distinguished for so prosaic a career. 

[5] 



This ant announced to his brother that he was 
done with what he termed the vulgar details of 
life in the home colony and was going to sur- 
round himself with slaves, and lead a life of ease. 
The brother advised against this course but to no 
avail; the would-be slave-maker got his slaves. 
Awed by his power of jaw, the slave ants coddled 
and flattered him to his heart's content. They 
worked industriously enough and tried to care 
for the master-ant, but their style of life was not 
his; in any emergency they would do what was 
proper for their kind, but what might be hurtful 
to their ruler. The poor things were not to blame 
for this ; they knew no better. In time the master- 
ant lost all power of doing things for himself, and 
he was most unhappy; the food did not agree 
with him, the nest was not properly repaired and 
defended, the slaves seemed unable to do any- 
thing right. As age and weakness overtook him, 
he realized that he had put his faith in a broken 
reed and repented his felly, but it v/as too late. 
His house collapsed, his line perished with him, 
and the slaves dispersed. 

The brother ant which had chosen to associ- 
ate with his own kind led the satisfying, normal 
life of one who lives and strives with worthy 
companions for worthy ends. Their home was 
serene and efficient, the various duties were in 
the care of ants which understood them and which 
had a real interest in the common welfare. The 
colony naturally thrived and grew, becoming one 
of the greatest in the region. The wise elder ant 
passed his latter days in great content, surrounded 
by those he had helped and loved and who now 
revered and respected him. His works and his 

16] 



fame were great for his kind, but his greatest com- 
fort (and later his noblest monument) was the 
brotherly love of his associates, faithful to the 
end. 

A DOG'S LIFE 

Following every motion with his fine glowing 
eyes, the dog seems almost to divine his master's 
fleeting moods. If the master smiles, Towser 
goes into ecstacies, if he frowns, the dog's tail 
droops in woe. In fair weather, Towser is a 
joyous, untiring companion, in foul, a staunch and 
enduring ally. Should his master be injured, his 
canine friend will seek help or stand guard until 
it arrives, should he be attacked the dog will op- 
pose a host of enemies, and sell his own life if 
need be in the struggle. Should the master perish, 
the devoted dog will starve beside his body or 
on his grave; faithful in life, he is faithful unto 
the end. 

So runs the typical eulogy of a dog, but as in 
most eulogies, important facts are suppressed. 
As a rule what the dog deserves is not laudation 
but condemnation as a very dunce, considering 
the undeserving object of his extravagant regard. 
In a hundred cases to one, the man will not con- 
sider the dog's feelings or wellbeing. On the 
contrary, he will bedevil him with harsh words, 
and cuff or kick him, as the spirit moves. The 
dog can sleep in the cold and storm though the 
man is snugly housed. If there is scarcity of 
food, the dog can go without and if starvation 
looms, sooner or later, he will be eaten. In short, 
the creature called man, to which the dog plays 
the part of a noble, if misguided, friend, will in the 

17] 



long run so act as to define anew the fell sig- 
nificance of the term "a dog's life." 

In applying the lesson of a dog's life to the gov- 
ernment service, we may recall that the prevalent 
understanding of the term "cooperate" is "be a 
good dog" and that the very popular expression 
"play the game" really means, "Lie down, 
Towser." 

THE HOARDERS 

Like the locust of ancient story which went in 
and got another grain of corn, a certain wood- 
pecker of our western states digs a hole and places 
an acorn therein, then prepares another hole and 
stores another acorn. Its chief object in life 
seems to be the pigeon-holing of acorns. It is said 
never to use more than a small proportion of the 
nuts it stores but, nevertheless, fiercely drives 
away intruders which would put to use part of its 
precious hoard. In this bird and its habits we 
have a likeness to certain librarians and their 
ways. Their idea of the proper conduct of a libra- 
ry is to place the books on the shelves and keep 
them there. The would-be borrower is cajoled 
and persuaded, pleaded with and dissuaded; it is 
so important that the books remain where they 
are. Coupled with this idea is another very pe- 
culiar one, namely, that if a book wanted is not 
in the library at the time, and the fact is duly re- 
ported, the incident is closed. Evidently it is ex- 
pected that the one wanting to consult a book 
should be just as well satisfied by the report, 
"not on shelf," or the like, as if he actually ob- 
tained the book. Thus the woodpecker hoarder 
obstructing the use of its ample stores by others 
is closely imitated. 

[8] 



TPIE EDITOR WRENS 

Referring to the federal employes as if they 
were members of the feathered kingdom we find 
among them, not more numerous perhaps than 
wrens are in comparison to other birds, but still 
far too numerous, the race of Editor Wrens. In 
contrast to other wrens these birds have no par- 
ticular economic value. Like the house wren, 
however, these editor wrens take a great interest 
in meddling with the nests (manuscripts) of other 
birds. Again like the familiar house wren, their 
own nests are made of coarse materials, some too 
long, others too short, of sticks, nails, wire, and 
such hodge-podge that cannot possibly be com- 
pounded into a harmonious whole. It is not sur- 
prising, therefore, that in altering the nests of 
other birds, as they love to do, they often remove 
a smooth and well-adapted part and replace it 
with a substitute that is stiff and utterly foreign 
to the remainder of the structure. Their own 
nests being of the most ramshackle description, 
these wrens are wholly unable to appreciate the 
niceties of construction, the symmetry, the careful 
fitting of part to part, and their mutual depend- 
ence, that characterize the nests of their betters 
in the bird world. The greatest beauties of other 
birds' nests, that is the eggs, are either thrown 
out entirely or pierced, broken, and scattered 
about, defiling the whole structure. 

The editor wrens, however, take great satisfac- 
tion in their destructive work and after thorough- 
ly wrecking the nest of another bird, sing over the 
remains. Concealing their part in the demolition 
of the structure, they represent the destroyed nest 

[9] 



as the genuine work of another bird, in the hope 
of establishing the editor wren style of architec- 
ture as the model for the whole bird world. In 
this hope, however, they are doomed to disap- 
pointment for every species of bird will continue 
to build its nest after the model that time and 
events have proved to be best adapted to the pur- 
pose. In view of the life habits of the Editor 
Wrens, it seems almost the dispensation of om- 
niscience that their song should sound like the 
words, "I'm useless, useless, useless." 2 



2 Since writing this, the author himself has done 
much editing, but he still deplores unnecessary revision of 
manuscripts. 



[10] 



THE MIGRANTS 

Many government representatives wander more 
or less in the performance of their work, but we 
have relatively few true migrants, that is those 
spending the summer in the north and the winters 
in the south. Naturally enough these typical 
migrants are restricted almost entirely to the high 
flyers. Those called chiefs frequently find that 
their presence is required in the Adirondacks, 
Glacier National Park, or Alaska in the summer 
and at Key West, Brownsville, or San Diego in 
the winter. More ambitious excursions are made 
by the legislative type, such distant places as the 
Canal Zone, and even the Hawaiian or Philip- 
pine Islands, being the goal of their cold weather 
trips. The following verses, closely resembling 
in style and sentiment Bryant's lines, "To A 
Waterfowl," are dedicated to these high flyers. 

Oh far, far from the city, 

How pleasant 'tis to go, 
From snow to seek the tropics 

And from heat the Eskimo. 
So if you like to junket 

And sport throughout the land, 
All bills the U. S. footing, 

Come join our classy band. 



[11] 






NOTES ON CONTENTS 

So far as notes on the manuscripts reveal, these 
parables, with the exception of "A Dog's Life" 
(March 12, 1924), were written in the winters of 
1920 and 1921. They may now be released, there- 
fore, with the assurance that they do not recog- 
nizably portray any individuals. The foibles they 
touch upon, however, are not lacking in the pres- 
ent, nor will they be unrepresented in any future, 
generation, as they are part of human nature. Oc- 
casionally it is salutary to take a good look at our- 
selves and the results from this scanning, the 
writer trusts will include some smiles or even 
chuckles. Fun is an antidote for foibles and in 
that spirit the Departmental Natural History is 
offered. 



112] 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 

015 909 157 



V 



